


The Paper Clip Wars

by boredshyandbi



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Gay Panic, Jon is very oblivious (in more ways than one), M/M, Martin deserves a holiday, Office Pranks, Pining, Season/Series 01, Tim and Sasha are up to no good, abuse of office supplies, or are they?, tea sabotage, the magnus archives is a workplace comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-18 22:21:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29616291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boredshyandbi/pseuds/boredshyandbi
Summary: It was the perfect shot, lined up just right—or it would have been if Martin hadn’t stepped forward at that exact moment, too preoccupied with making sure he didn’t spill any of Jon’s tea to notice Sasha’s makeshift weapon.Most of the paper clips crashed harmlessly into the sleeve of Martin’s jumper, but one solitary, misguided soldier, bright pink and separated from its brethren, soared above the others and splashed into the mug with a solemn plink, sinking into the depths of Jon’s tea.Martin froze, staring dumbfounded at the cup in his hands.Tim and Sasha engage in battle. Martin is determined to protect Jon and his dignity from the fallout, risking humiliation and his sanity.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sasha James & Tim Stoker
Comments: 9
Kudos: 116





	The Paper Clip Wars

“Timothy Stoker, for the last time, stop leaving your bloody paper clips all over my desk! I know you’re doing it on purpose.” Sasha was glaring at him, hands planted firmly on her hips, mouth twisted into an accusing scowl.

Tim, casually reclined in his chair, slowly, rolled over to survey the crime scene. “Of course I'm doing it on purpose. It's a smiley face.” He indicated two vertically-arranged paper clips at the center of Sasha’s desk, and a chain of paper clips, linked end to end in the shape of a parabola, whimsically curving upwards—the smile. 

Sasha was not pleased. “And that?” she pointed at a misshapen scramble of metal, placed beside her keyboard. 

“A thumbs up. It’s saying 'good work, Sasha.' Isn't that nice?”

“It would be much nicer over on your desk.”

“I’m just trying to spread a little Archives cheer,” Tim said, the picture of innocence.

“Can’t you just treat us to lunch or something? Send a nice email?” Sasha suggested, her frown slipping despite her best efforts.

Tim pouted. “You’re no fun.”

Sasha cupped her hand beside her desk, and swept the paper clips away, depositing them with a swift motion in Tim’s lap. “You’ll find I’ll be much more fun when I haven’t got paper clips invading my work space.”

“And when Martin shows up with some caffeine,” she added under her breath, because, really, it was much too early for this.

* * *

Sasha came into the Archives the next morning to find the entire surface of her desk eclipsed by rows and rows of the little, metal, oblong things, almost like chainmail for the polished wood. A sparser phalanx shone silver against the black ridges of her keyboard, and a few formed a defensive perimeter around the base of her computer monitor. Even more had established an encampment on her office chair, cresting the seat’s padding in clusters.

“They’re declaring war.”

Sasha glanced at Tim. He was watching her out of the corner of his eye, pretending to rifle through a stack of files, a smug grin splayed across his face.

“War,” she said flatly.

“You've insulted their honor.”

“Oh, have I?”

“You spurned their diplomatic party yesterday,” Tim informed her, deadly serious. “You called them invaders.”

Sasha couldn’t help but let out a rather unflattering snort. “Christ, Tim, where are you finding them?”

“There isn’t a draft, if that’s what you’re implying. They volunteered to fight. They knew the risks,” Tim huffed.

“I mean, actually, where are you finding them?”

Tim smirked. “I know where Rosie keeps the extra office supplies.”

Sasha shook her head lightly, amused. “You really are bored, aren’t you?”

Tim nodded. “Desperately.”

Sasha considered the sea of paperclips, shooting a furtive glance at Jon’s very shut office door. “Alright,” she caved. “You’ve got yourself a war.”

She picked up a file folder from her desk, and scraped her chair clean of the metallic soldiers, listening to them clatter to the floor. Then, Sasha sat, plopping her documents down on the desk, sending even more of Tim’s army flying, and successfully pushing the enemy lines back a good couple of centimeters, swiping clear a crater just big enough for Sasha to place her files.

Tim gaped at her, his face brightening at the prospect of a challenge.

“Oh, so that’s where all the paper clips went.” It was a cup of steaming tea being set down on a (just nearly) bare corner of Sasha’s desk, and attached to the cup was Martin, curiously surveying the paper clip battle.

“Can I borrow one?” he asked Sasha. “We’ve run out of staples, and you know how Jon gets about loose statement forms.” He chuckled, stiff and awkward. Poor Martin, always eager to impress. He was no better even after two months in the Archives.

Sasha nodded, retrieving one of the paper clips from the floor, and offering Martin the fallen warrior.

Martin mumbled his thanks and retreated to his desk, a safe distance away from the warfront.

Tim watched as Martin clipped a stack of papers together. “Now they’ll never get a proper burial,” he said distraught.

Sasha stifled a laugh behind her hand, because this was war, and she was perfectly capable of being serious.

* * *

Sasha gathered her own army on the third day of war. A couple pounds was more than worth it if it meant she now had an army of five hundred strong. She even opted for the multicoloured ones so Tim wouldn’t get any ideas about abducting  _ her  _ soldiers.

Sasha had plans for a bold invasion, mirroring Tim’s strike on her desk the previous day, but by the time she came into the Archives that morning, it was too late. Long chains of paper clips wrapped around Sasha’s desk, blocking access to the drawers. Her computer mouse was completely cocooned in the metal warriors.

Sasha glanced at Tim, who was lounging in his tyrannical seat of power, a silver circlet of paper clips perched delicately atop his head.

Sasha gave him a wicked smile. The second he left his desk, she’d strike. 

But he didn’t. All morning they sat like that: Sasha unraveling the restraints on her desk until she could actually have a usable work space again, Tim watching smugly, and Martin typing away at his computer quietly, trying his best to stay out of it.

Realising that it was unlikely that she’d be able to get the upper hand on her own, Sasha resolved to make an ally. So, when Martin wandered off to the break room half an hour later, presumably to perform his ritualistic tea-making, Sasha followed.

“Martin.”

Martin nearly dropped the kettle at the sound of her voice. “Christ, Sasha! Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

Sasha shushed him. “I’m on a covert mission.”

Martin was arranging four mugs in a neat little row on the counter beside the stove, but he turned to Sasha and sighed. “Has it got to do with your paper clips thing?”

“War,” Sasha corrected. “This is war, Martin, and I’m going to need your support if there’s to be any hope of defeating Tim.”

Martin shook his head, mystified. “I already told Tim: I’m not choosing sides. I’m a neutral party.”

Sasha crossed her arms, thoroughly disappointed, but Martin was already fussing over a selection of tea bags, too occupied to look at her. “You know,” Martin added. “Rosie’s been questioning everyone in Research about her stolen paper clips. Maybe you should stop before she notices.” He paused, contemplative, as the kettle began to whistle. “Or before Jon does.”

Sasha was already tuning him out, brainstorming new ways to get back at Tim.

Maybe she could use some sort of subliminal messaging to lure him away from his desk for a few minutes? Or maybe she could imply there were biscuits in the break room? Or she could fill a file folder with paper clips, pass it off as normal, and wait until he opened it over his desk for the metal tidal wave to spill from within. It wasn’t very subtle. Sasha had no idea how she would go about disguising the distinctive shape and feel of one hundred paper clips carefully stuffed into a file folder.

Martin was waving a mug of hot tea in front of her face. “Sasha? Were you listening?”

“Sorry,” she said, accepting the tea. “Strategising.”

Martin made a displeased face, a tiny frown over a jutting chin. “I could help you negotiate an armistice if you like?” he offered, well-meaning.

Sasha shook her head stubbornly. “Peace is not an option.”

“If you say so.” Martin grabbed hold of two of the mugs, and Sasha trailed behind him, clutching her own mug, watching as Martin delivered Tim’s tea, giving him as wide a berth as possible. Martin deposited his own cup on his desk and drifted back toward the break room for the last of the tea.

Sasha’s pensive sips were slow and deliberate, and suddenly, the plan unfolded in her mind. What she needed was a way to send over her paper clip soldiers to invade Tim’s desk without incurring suspicion by standing up or ever going near the desk herself. The answer was obvious.

Sasha dug through her desk drawers. She knew she had one or two of them in here somewhere. Ah, found it! A few rectangular nail files. Sasha scavenged in the drawer on her left. A plastic spoon, and—perfect, rubber bands. She remembered this particular craft from lazy afternoons in primary school science class. Sasha deftly wound the rubber bands around and around, securing the components of her creation, leaning just so a curtain of her hair fell forward, obscuring any hints about her plan from Tim.

Sasha pressed down on the spoon with her finger, testing the tension. Just right. Her catapult was ready.

She lowered the spoon, holding it in place as she heaped it with paper clips. She positioned the catapult at the edge of her desk, aiming for the exact center of Tim’s desk. She smiled to herself. He was paying her no attention. He’d never see it coming.

Sasha began to lift her hand, the spoon eager to spring upward beneath her finger. It was the perfect shot, lined up just right—or it would have been if Martin hadn’t stepped forward at that exact moment, too preoccupied with making sure he didn’t spill any of Jon’s tea to notice Sasha’s makeshift weapon.

Most of the paper clips crashed harmlessly into the sleeve of Martin’s jumper, but one solitary, misguided soldier, bright pink and separated from its brethren, soared above the others and splashed into the mug with a solemn plink, sinking into the depths of Jon’s tea.

Martin froze, staring dumbfounded at the cup in his hands.

Tim was taking in the scattered paper clips strewn across the floor beside his desk. His eyes widened as he noticed the deadly catapult, positioned guiltily on Sasha’s desk.

Martin swallowed. “Sasha, y-you—”

Jon chose the perfect time to emerge from his office, a batch of statement forms tucked under one arm. His eyes instantly locked onto the tea in Martin’s hands, and he approached the war zone.

“Is that for me?” 

It  _ was  _ Jon’s mug—the mug they’d all come to think of as Jon’s anyway. Plain, a forest-y shade of green, and the only one in the break room without some cheesy slogan or cartoonish image for Jon to deem obnoxious. The tea  _ had  _ been meant for Jon, but Sasha was sure it wasn’t anymore. 

Martin shuffled his feet, and Sasha wondered if he was going to break into a run. “Well, um, y-yes, but actually I—”

“Thank you, Martin.” Jon reached for the handle.

Martin opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again, turning to Sasha desperately. His eyes screamed  _ HELP ME. _

But Sasha couldn’t think of anything to say to bail all of them out of this very unfortunate accident.

Tim was watching the scene play out, half horrified, half fascinated.

Martin tightened his grip on the mug, and Jon looked up at him, confused.

“I-It’s not going to taste very good,” Martin blurted. “Let me make you another.”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Jon said, unaware of what was resting at the bottom of the cup.

Sasha watched as Martin came to the realisation that his efforts to delay were doomed. It was too late. With visible effort, Martin pried his fingers from the mug.

Jon didn’t seem to notice the fear written all over Martin’s face as he accepted the tea.

Nobody breathed as Jon disappeared into the document storage room, raising the cup to his lips.

Tim was shaking his head, amazed.

With a stilted breath, Martin excused himself. Sasha could hear his heavy footsteps from down the hall as he paced back and forth in the break room.

“Wow.” Tim adjusted his paper clip crown atop his head. “I can’t believe you just did that.”

Sasha lifted her chin proudly. “I have no regrets.”

This was not true. Sasha had many regrets.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Jon appeared, heading right back into his office, with not so much as a word or scathing glance to acknowledge Sasha’s war crimes. He wasn’t holding the mug, but instead was carrying a carton of files, a sloppy “March 1982” scrawled across its side.

Sasha shot Tim a questioning look and he shrugged in return.

Things became exponentially clearer when Martin arrived at his desk, holding the green mug, his hands shaking badly.

“He drank it?” Sasha whispered.

Martin nodded almost imperceptibly.

With a morbid kind of curiosity, both Sasha and Tim leapt up, crowding around Martin, until all three of them were standing over the cup, heads bowed, as if peering down into a well. About a quarter of the tea remained, and as the shallow liquid sloshed at the bottom of the cup, Sasha could see the unmistakable glint of pink metal.

“What did he say?” Sasha asked, wanting to gauge exactly how fired they were about to be.

Martin bit his lip. “He said it was fine.”

Sasha blinked at him, not sure she’d heard correctly.

“He didn’t notice?!” Tim asked, shocked.

Martin shook his head slowly, clearly troubled by the maniacal way Tim was grinning at the submerged paper clip. 

“I think it would be best if we all forgot about your paper clip war before Jon figures out what’s going on,” Martin cautioned.

“But he won’t,” Sasha pointed out, starting to get an idea as to why Tim was smiling like that.

Martin made a frustrated noise. “He  _ will  _ if you keep catapulting paper clips into his tea,” he insisted crossly.

Tim considered this. “I don’t think he would.”

“No! You are not putting paper clips in Jon’s tea!” Martin spluttered.

“Don’t worry, Martin,” Tim consoled him. “There are many other places paper clips can go. We’ve got a whole archive begging for redecoration.”

“Redecoration?!”

Tim extended his hand to Sasha. “I think a ceasefire is in order?”

She shook his hand, “Agreed.”

* * *

No one had actually disclosed to Martin the terms of the ceasefire, but it was pretty clear to him what Tim and Sasha were up to when he was washing up, and found half the mugs in the break room cabinets filled to the brim with silver paper clips.

Martin found an assortment of blue ones in the sink after a trip to the toilet. Leaning back in his chair in frustration after accidentally deleting one of his reports, he even spotted the name "Tim" outlined in silver metal, taped to the ceiling. Martin was beginning to sense a pattern here.

The rules, he imagined, were simple: hide as many paper clips as possible in the Archives before Jon commented on this new development. A war by conquering and subtlety, although judging by their recent placements of the paper clips, Tim and Sasha didn't quite know how to be subtle. 

Martin was sure they thought it was all just a fun game, a distraction from the drudgery of paperwork, but Martin was worried about the consequences. It wasn’t likely that Tim and Sasha would be fired, or even transferred back to Research—really, who else was there to take their place? But, Jon would take it personally, Martin knew, and the little progress that had been made, the grudging acceptance of Tim’s jokes, the little smiles and “thank you”s at Martin’s offers of tea, would be gone.

And Martin couldn’t let that happen. 

There was no hope for neutrality, not anymore. Martin couldn’t let Tim and Sasha’s childish rivalry hurt Jon, so he did the only thing he could think to do: he commandeered a rubbish bin and tried to clear away as many paper clips as he could.

The count was as follows:

122 in the break room (103 of these taking up residence in the aforementioned mugs).

46 in the sinks (and 8 more lodged in the hand dryer).

17 on the ceiling, spelling out “Tim.” Martin had waited until Tim and Sasha went out for lunch, and had nearly fallen to his death standing on his desk to dislodge the paper clips with a ruler.

Perhaps he should have seen it coming the next morning, when he went into Jon’s office to deliver a (hopefully) paper-clip-free tea, and found Jon emptying the pockets of his coat, hands full of Sasha’s colourful paper clips.

Jon studied the metal objects.

Martin was certain he was going to say something about unacceptable pranks in the workplace, but he just gave Martin a confused look, and said, “That’s odd. I don’t remember putting them in there.”

Jon’s brow furrowed, and his tongue poked out in concentration, just barely breaching his lips, as he delicately turned a gaudy yellow paper clip over in his fingers. 

Martin laughed nervously, setting down the green mug on Jon’s desk, and scurried out, trying not to think too hard about how well Jonathan Sims wore curiosity.

* * *

The fifth day of the Paper Clip Wars was a Monday, and Martin had hoped that the weekend intermission would persuade his coworkers to forget about the competition. At the very least, he didn’t spot any more paper clips clogging the sinks or hanging from the ceiling. He assumed that Tim and Sasha had decided on better disguised hiding spots for their paper clip domination project.

He had never been more wrong in his life, because as Martin made his way to his desk that morning, he noticed Jon handing off some files to Sasha, over at her desk. Martin watched, absolutely horrified, as Sasha slipped a paper clip onto Jon’s sleeve, his horror doubling as Jon walked away, completely oblivious.

Sasha made a face at Tim, challenging him. The message was clear:  _ beat that. _

“Sasha,” Martin hissed, panicking more than a bit. “Jon already noticed the paper clips you put in his pockets yesterday.”

Sasha shrugged. “He didn’t say anything to me about it.”

“Me neither,” chirped Tim.

“But he noticed,” insisted Martin. “So you can stop.”

“Stop what?” Sasha batted her eyelashes innocently.

“We already called a ceasefire,” Tim said.

Martin groaned, and buried his head in his hands.

* * *

It didn’t get any easier from there.

Throughout that morning, paper clips gravitated towards Jon so quickly, that Martin could have sworn he was magnetic.

When Jon came out to use the printer, Martin had noticed six paper clips attached to his sleeves (two on the right wrist and four on the left), and another three secured to his collar.

Martin only realised he’d been staring when Jon turned round and gave him an odd look. “Have I got something on my jumper?”   


“No!” Martin yelped, startling Tim and Sasha at their neighboring desks. “Your jumper’s very clean—uh, spotless! Very nice…material.”

Jon’s frown deepened. “It’s wool.”

Martin could feel his ears going red. He knew Tim would never let him live this down.

Jon snatched up his papers from the printer. “Do try to remember not to yell in the Archives, Martin."

The second Jon was out of sight, Martin plopped his head down on his desk, too mortified to be seen by the world for the indeterminable future. This was not a war on paper clips. This was a war on Martin’s sanity.

* * *

Martin should have waited for the next lift. He really should have. He should have known that with Tim and Sasha out to lunch—and “out to lunch” was definitely synonymous with plotting against Martin’s noble crusade to de-paper-clip-ify the Archives—there was a very high chance that Jon would head to the canteen at exactly the same time as Martin, and Martin would consequently be trapped in the lift, alone with Jon.

And Jon did. And Martin was.

Sasha had taped paper clips to the lift buttons, and naturally, Jon didn’t notice this.

The paper clips on Jon’s jumper had disappeared, although Martin wasn’t sure if they’d fallen off, or if Jon had plucked them from his clothes, thinking he’d somehow stuck them there himself and been careless enough to forget.

But Martin did notice the conspicuous set of silver paper clips (Tim’s work, evidently) fastened around the hem of Jon’s right trouser leg.

Martin had been to the office parties where his colleagues drank too much to care about the cruel words that spilled from liquor-loosened lips, and had cared even less when those cruel words were about the new Head Archivist.

It made Martin feel sick they way they mocked the Archives, and he imagined that showing up to the canteen, accessorised with Rosie’s stolen paper clips would do little to help Jon’s reputation.

Two public-embarrassment-related deaths probably exceeded the Archives quota. Martin’s pride had already been a casualty of this war. There was no need for Jon to join the wounded.

So, Martin bent down to tie his shoe, which would have been perfectly normal had he been actually wearing shoes with laces. Martin hadn’t really thought that far ahead, but he was already kneeling on the floor of the lift, so he reached for Jon’s trouser leg, and pried free the four silver paper clips. Despite all the things Jon refused to notice, he noticed Martin tugging on the end of his trousers.

Martin righted himself so abruptly he felt light-headed, and stuffed the paper clips into one of his pockets before Jon could see.

“Uh, there was a fly,” Martin lied, gesturing clumsily at Jon’s ankle.

“Did you get it?”

“Sorry?”

“The fly.”

“No,” Martin said dumbly. “Must have flown away.” He waved his hand vaguely upward.

Jon nodded, lips pursed, and it was silent for the rest of the ride.

* * *

After that ride in the lift from hell, Martin thought he was prepared for anything that Tim, Sasha, and their paper clips could throw at him. He’d thought wrong.

Two hours had passed since lunch, and Martin was hoping he might be able to endure the rest of the work day with minimal opportunity for another humiliating encounter with Jon. Of course, that’s when Jon came out of his office, asking for Martin’s follow up on that case with the woman who thought her parakeet was possessed.

Doing his best not to make eye contact, Martin dug through the papers on his desk. He usually tried to keep his work space tidy, but with the stress of the paper clips, the files had really begun to pile up.

“Here you are,” Martin handed over his notes, and made the grave mistake of looking up.

Jon was standing before him, shadows playing on the hard planes of his face, his chin strong, and his eyes stern—and in his hair were paper clips.

They were purple, one one either side of his head, pulling back the hair at his temples. Martin couldn’t help but stare at the way the strands tucked behind Jon’s ears curled up at the ends, just slightly. It looked sort of ridiculous and sort of…right.

God, he was beautiful.

“Martin?”

Martin coughed, trying not to choke on his own tongue. Right, Jon was asking him for the case number. Jon, his boss, was asking Martin for the case number.

It was a perfectly reasonable request.

_ He had paper clips in his hair. _

“It’s—ah, it should be on the front there,” Martin managed to get out.

He tugged at his collar, certain that his cheeks were burning. He could feel Tim and Sasha watching him. Someone had left a handful of paper clips in his pen jar, and this was bad, very bad, because now when Martin thought of paper clips, he thought of wool jumpers and trouser legs and hair and that fluttery feeling that took over whenever he looked at Jon a bit longer than he should have.

Jon nodded, having located the case number label on the first page, and mercifully left Martin to his paper-clip-imposed-torment.

“Sasha,” Martin said, weary from a pounding heart and about four times the amount of stress he was equipped to handle on a Monday. “Please tell me you didn’t drug him so you could put paper clips in his hair.” Martin had trouble enunciating that last word, so it came out breathy and half-formed.

Sasha gave him a knowing smile. “Caught him dozing off after lunch.”

“That’s—that’s invading his personal space,” Martin argued, getting flustered. “I thought you wanted to redecorate the Archives, not Jon.”

“Jon  _ is  _ the Archives,” Tim pointed out. “He spends more time here than he does in his flat.”

“But that doesn’t give you a right to…to—”

“Give him a new hairstyle?” suggested Sasha.

“You don’t like it?” asked Tim.

That was quite the opposite of the truth. “No, I—I didn’t say  _ that,  _ but—”

“What happened to neutral party, Martin?” Tim said, winking. “Seems like you’ve chosen a side.”

Martin gritted his teeth. “You two can be so infuriating, you know that?”

Sasha shrugged, weaving a long chain of paper clips at her desk.

“Can’t you just declare a winner now?” Martin begged. “Let it be over already?”

Tim hummed, considering. “Afraid not,” he shook his head grimly.

“Why?” Martin asked, trying his best not to think about purple paper clips and the curled bits of Jon’s hair.

“We’re tied,” Tim said simply.

“What?!”

“Eight-hundred forty-one,” Sasha informed him.

“So, put one on Tim’s desk, and end this,” Martin encouraged.

Sasha shook her head. “That’s not how this works.”

“Enlighten me, then,” Martin said sharply.

“Each hiding spot has to top the last in its boldness,” Tim explained. “Or else it gets boring.”

“You put them in Jon’s hair. I wouldn’t call that a hiding spot.”

“It is to him,” Sasha piped up.

Martin dragged a hand down his face, exasperated. “I don’t understand the point,” he complained. “It’s not like you’ll win a prize.”

“It’s for glory,” Tim answered.

“Glory,” Sasha echoed. “And I want Tim’s chair with the good wheels.”

“Why do  _ you  _ care so much, Martin?” Tim countered. “Have you got some life-long vendetta against paper clips, or something?”

Martin clamped his mouth shut, because if he kept asking questions, he was sure to be asked the questions he didn’t want to answer.

* * *

Once again, Martin should have known not to take the lift. Even after the whole incident with the trouser leg and the imaginary fly, Martin reasoned he’d be safe as long as he wasn’t  _ alone  _ with Jon. And he wasn’t. It was one of those rare occasions where Martin, Tim, Sasha, and Jon had all ended up departing from the Archives at the same time, so now all four of them were in the lift: Sasha whispering conspiratorially in Tim’s ear, Martin doing his best not to exist, and Jon standing as far away as he could from the others (which wasn’t very far in a lift filled with four people).

The purple paper clips were gone from Jon’s hair, likely having fallen out some time that afternoon. Martin was torn between immeasurable relief and insuppressible disappointment at this.

Martin was looking forward to getting as far away from the Institute and its many, many paper clips as he could. He was almost convinced that this ride in the lift would not end in embarrassment, but as was a common theme these days, Martin was wrong.

When he first noticed the glint of metal in the general vicinity of Jon’s hand, he thought it might be a ring, or some other form of shiny jewelry. Upon a second inspection, Martin’s breath froze in his throat.

It was a silver paper clip, one of Tim’s.

Taped. To. Jon’s. Hand.

Martin had no idea how he’d done it, but he knew that if Jon walked into the lobby with a bloody paper clip taped to his hand—

Martin took a shuddering inhale. Was it worth it? Was it really worth it?

It was Jon, so it was.

Before he could change his mind, Martin stepped forward and took hold of Jon’s hand.

The good news was that Jon didn’t notice when Martin peeled the paper clip loose, and the metal soldier clattered to the floor, because he was too busy staring at Martin. The bad news was that Jon was staring at Martin, confusion written all over his face.

Tim and Sasha were watching Martin’s suffering unfold, transfixed.

Martin stared at the floor, making no attempt to address the disconcerting fact that he had just grabbed Jon’s hand.

He tried to play it casual, which was very difficult because his hand was getting sweaty and Jon’s palm was soft and cool.

Martin snuck a glance at Jon, trying to gauge his level of disgust, but all he found was curiosity. He felt Jon’s fingers flex experimentally in his own.

Jonathan Sims was  _ holding Martin’s hand. _

This was really too much for a Monday.

When the lift doors dinged open, Martin was the first one out, mumbling a “sorry” and darting out the lobby doors as fast as he could.

* * *

“Very funny, Sasha,” Martin grumbled as he sat down at his desk the next morning to find a heart outlined in red paper clips.

Sasha quirked her head sympathetically. “Thought you could use some cheering up.” She glanced accusingly at Tim.

Tim raised his hands in surrender. “I didn’t know you were going to grab his hand.”

“No, but you thought I would.”

“Come on, Martin. I’m sorry we humiliated you, really,” Tim said earnestly.

Sasha drifted over to Martin’s desk, and laid her hand on top of his. “We’ll stop with the war.”

Martin looked up at her, hopeful. “Really?”

Sasha nodded.

Tim snorted. “You’re just saying that because you’re ahead by nine.”

Sasha hushed him. “No, it’s because we’re good friends who know when a prank has gone too far.”

Tim begrudgingly removed his paper clip crown from his hair. “I suppose.”

Martin looked between them, dubious. “So, the war’s over?”

Sasha squeezed his hand. “It’s over.”

A wave of relief flooded through Martin. It was a good thing too. His rubbish bin was getting really full.

* * *

Sasha and Tim’s reluctant truce didn’t fix everything, however.

There was still the issue that Martin couldn’t do his job and avoid Jon at the same time, and after two traumatic experiences in the lift, avoiding Jon seemed like the only option there was.

But there were still follow up notes due by the end of the day, a background check that Jon had asked him for, which Martin had been dreading dropping off on Jon’s desk the whole morning.

As noon drew near, Martin decided that delaying would only make things worse, so steeling himself, and mustering what little courage he had, he marched into Jon’s office, papers in hand.

Martin got all the way up to Jon’s desk without noticing it. Only when he was setting his documents down in front of Jon did he catch sight of it: a red paper clip poking out from between Jon’s lips, held in his mouth like a tailor would hold a pin.

Martin couldn’t look away, because there was no way that Sasha had placed it there. It was the paper clips themselves that were messing with Martin. The paper clips and the whole bloody universe.

Martin leaned forward, entranced, and gently removed the paper clip.

Jon looked up, breaking focus from his furiously scribbled notes.

Martin swallowed, not sure if he should make an excuse, or flee, or do something else entirely.

“Martin?” Jon asked, and Martin couldn’t see anything but the way Jon’s lips moved around the name.

Martin decided on something else entirely.

“I—uh. I would like to kiss you,” Martin whispered.

Jon’s eyes darted to Martin’s lips. He cleared his throat. “I would like you to do that, as well,” Jon told him matter-of-factly.

So, Martin leaned forward, the edge of the desk digging into his side, and kissed Jon.

Jon tasted of tea and paper clips.

Martin didn’t think he would ever be able to stop smiling.

And so, the Paper Clip Wars drew to a close.

Martin supposed it had been a losing battle to begin with, although if this was losing, Martin didn’t think he minded all that much.

**Author's Note:**

> I had this idea that I thought would be really cute with the season 1 crew and their dynamic. I had a blast writing this one!


End file.
